


My heart is full

by nottimagiche



Category: Football RPF, Men's Football RPF
Genre: England Football Team, M/M, Manchester City, Tottenham Hotspur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 12:07:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16449644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nottimagiche/pseuds/nottimagiche
Summary: While I adore Dele/Dier, I needed to get this Stonesy pairing off my chest.Many references to real events but certainly no truth to this. Some strong language. Enjoy!





	My heart is full

**Author's Note:**

> While I adore Dele/Dier, I needed to get this Stonesy pairing off my chest.  
> Many references to real events but certainly no truth to this. Some strong language. Enjoy!

The best place for John to hide at the training ground was the auditorium. No pressers today, no media, so a safe bet the place would be empty, the rows of benches both a cover and a respite. Sometimes he would lie down on the floor between one of the back rows and just stare at the ceiling, listen to the soft hum of the air conditioning and try to calm his breathing and his mind.

Today he opted for one of the seats, leaned his head back and exhaled while his heart was beating a mile a minute. Not so normal for him, being nervous.

Fucking Spurs. Fuck them.

Fuck him.

Fuck him, John chanted a mantra almost audibly in an effort to calm himself.

Fuck his face, his smile, his fucking thighs, his heart of fucking gold.

“Christ”, John exhaled out loud and ran his fingers up and down his forehead, as if trying to erase his memory.

Eric fucking Dier, the bane of his existence.

The unrequited love of his life.

***

City were preparing to face Spurs on Monday night, a strange day for football, John always felt, since the weekend was left empty and he liked his weekend routine. Now instead of preparing for a match, he would be roped into a farmer’s market or the cinema or some other nonsense he didn’t really care for. Not that he didn’t like being with his family, he just liked the weekends for himself and for football, it had been like that for 15 years and he liked the routine. None of this Monday night rubbish, waiting all weekend to play.

And waiting to face him. He really didn’t care for that.

“See, I knew ye were in ‘ere”, a voice came from the bottom of the auditorium. John looked up and saw Delphy at the door.

“And how did ye know that?” John sighed.

“Well, ye think ye’re bein’ all stealth and all but ye always come ‘ere when ye need a minute.”

“Great, ye’ve got me all sussed then.”

Fabian looked at the disappointed look on his friend’s face. “Ye know I won’t tell, yea?”, he offered. “Just that gaffer needs to see yeh.”

“Yeah, all right”, John replied and shuffled down the stairs in his sliders, with Fabian holding the door open.

“Not abou’ the lad, is it?” Fabian asked gingerly as John walked past him and was met with a look that told him it was all about the lad and then some.

“Fer fuck’s sake”, Fabian sighed as John walked on. “Dier ye stupid fuck”, he muttered under his breath as he followed the tall defender down the hallway.

***

Russia was where it all went pear-shaped.

John had come to a boiling point, could no longer take it, had to act on it, had to do something, to touch him and while Eric let him, afterwards the guilt and the realities came down on John like a bag of bricks and he shut down and spent the rest of the tournament avoiding Eric to the best of his ability. The same with the national call-ups in September and October, at least there was strength in numbers, the more lads in the way the better. He’d made a fool of himself in Russia and he could barely cope.

And him, Eric… his fucking understanding eyes and his arms reaching out to hug him afterwards, they were burned into John’s memory and flashed behind his eyes most nights when he closed them. The arms, the strong muscles down his sides, the dimples in his hips from the fucking yoga he was doing, fuck him and his fucking yoga.

And fuck if he wasn’t all John could think about.

***

They’d had a long journey together already, longer than most lads he knew in football. In 2013, with the Under 20s, Eric was already established with the youth teams and John just excited to be invited. He knew full well who Eric was when they first shook hands at St George’s Park, both selected for the U20 World Cup in Turkey that summer.

John knew full well the tall foreigner, exotic as he was, a mixture of sleek England and sun-drenched Portugal and John was mesmerised. How could someone his own age be so calm, so composed, so shy at the same time, it was a puzzle he was desperate to solve. And the more he got to know Eric, the more infatuated he became, with the wit, the smile, the cultured mind so distinct from his own. What he would give to be like that, that exotic blend, rather than the plain Pencil from Barnsley.

Of course Eric would never make him feel like that, he was open, gregarious with those he bonded with, which was most lads, reserved at first but easy to bare his soul once you had his trust. They roomed together during the training camp and the tournament and he couldn’t get enough of Eric’s penchant for a chat. They would talk most evenings in their room, about life, football, family, anything and everything. It beat playing Call of Duty like the rest of the lads; instead he was painted a picture of blue skies, sandy beaches, seafood restaurants and dogs as Eric relayed his life in Portugal. John secretly wished for an invite to Eric’s home after the tournament, to the sunny shores, so close had they become in Turkey but the invite never came and instead he had to suffice with images on Eric’s Instagram of tanned torsos, tanned backs, tanned arms hugging dogs. Bastard.

***

It seemed like light years ago, that summer. They were so young, with baby faces and long limbs, with heads still trying to catch up their growing bodies, in more ways than one. With nerves that came from having the crest on your shirt, the honour and responsibility that came with those three lions making you nervous.

John looked around at the framed football shirts in his den, the number 5 Dier from the U20 World Cup one of the first he ever swapped. He often wondered if Eric had his number 14 framed on his wall but then again, Eric didn’t really seem like a guy to frame shirts, at least not while he was still playing. And they wouldn’t really go with his minimalist Scandi design, John let out a small laugh, thinking of that one time he’d actually had an invite to Eric’s North London home.

But good God, had they played shit in that tournament though, losing or drawing all group games, finishing last in their group and going home with nothing but… well nothing really. But the moment the last match finished, with a 2-0 loss, John knew he was looking at a future England captain. No, not Harry, but the way Eric went around all the lads, touched their shoulders, shook their hands, offered words of encouragement to those slumped on the pitch, the way he wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders and said, “We need to learn from this Stonesy, we need to be better, England expects us to be better than this, mate, you and me”, that’s when John knew he had the arms of a future England captain around him.

Those arms. John still remembers how different they felt then, when they were still so young, with less muscle but the grip that much tighter.

***

That summer was, John felt, the start of a beautiful friendship. He wasn’t quite certain Eric felt the same way but he could push that to the back of his mind. They both went on to play for the Under 21s and by that time John was playing for Everton, Eric’s old club, where he would hear stories of the man, the myth, the legend that was one Eric Dier.

They kept in touch through texts and occasional phone calls and John knew Eric was coming to Spurs before the deal was announced. He was ecstatic to have him on English soil again, the prospect of playing against each other in the Premiership the second best scenario. The best would have been him joining Everton again, Stones and Dier in the back four, kicking asses and taking names but it wasn’t to be. But Eric at Spurs was the second best thing John could think of. And he did think about him a lot.

***

John always knew Eric was thinking much less about him. The start of that 2014 season, with Eric’s goals and enthusiasm and his own ankle injury meant John would spend months at home, nursing his injury while watching pundits fawn over Dier. All this was made slightly better by the occasional SMS jingle from his phone, with

_Thinking of you mate, feel better soon_

or

_Thinking of ways to cure a pencil, have nothing yet. But love ya mate._

The bastard, the way he would casually throw that word around drove John up the wall because he knew Eric would never feel the same way, would never think about him as much as he occupied John’s thoughts. That beautiful, thoughtful bastard.

***

And then there was Dele. Bami-fucking-dele, who was everything John wanted to be, not for himself but for Eric. Seeing those two together was like a blunt rusty knife being rolled around in his insides, scraped up to his lungs to rob him of air and then twisted back down to his gut to deliver the fatal blow.

Everything they could have been, had Eric come back to Everton, was now on display at Spurs, fucking laughter and looks and banter and touches and falls and cheeky interviews, fuck, it was enough to make a grown man sick. And the worst of it, Dele was a nice lad, funny and decent and great fun to be around, of course Eric would like him.

So John took to their company at the Euros, another abysmal tournament, finishing this time with John’s arms around Eric’s shaking shoulders after he finished heaving his guts out in the dressing room. Fucking Roy, couldn’t leave a sick man out of the line-up but John took some solace in their performances and in the words of the pale, sweaty, demi-Portuguese shivering in his arms, “Stonesy, didn’t I say we need to be better, you and me”, Eric sighed.

“Ye’re sick and he made ye play, it’s not right”, John whispered while trying to rub some warmth back into Eric’s cold arms.

“We needed to be better”, Eric repeated while John could see Dele looking at them across the room.

“I know, mate, I know tha’”, John sighed as he touched the back of Eric’s neck and stood up as he saw Dele approaching. He took a few steps, grabbed Dele’s arm and turned him away from Eric’s slumped posture.

“Ye need to take care o’ him t’day”, John hissed angrily in Dele’s ear while squeezing the younger man’s arm. “Everythin’ he does for ye, ye don’t even realise it, now it’s yer turn to take care o’ him, understand me?” John continued as he sought Dele’s nervous eyes and saw a small nod of the head.

“Good”, John said as he walked towards the showers.

***

The Euros were a turning point. The tournament yes, but also the way John saw himself, his future. He needed to be better, as Eric had told him, but also to let go of the youthful folly of pretending what his time at Everton could be. There would be no Stones and Dier at the back so fuck it, it was time to move on. And they wouldn’t have him at Spurs, with more centre backs than they knew what to do with, so Man City seemed like a logical option. Not too far from home, Barnsley or Liverpool, but still a world away.

Eric called when the contract was in the news, made all kinds of jokes about _tens times better, eh_ but John knew if Eric was in the market, his 50 million wouldn’t be enough to get that man halfway to his new destination. And Eric did get a nice new contract at Spurs for all his effort, the goals, the caps, the person he was, John suspected.

For John it was time to be something other than the person he was. City were a new world, he was a new man, no longer tied down by what he couldn’t have but free to pick and choose whatever or whoever he wanted. It wasn’t what he wanted to be, not really, but being the nice guy for so long and getting nothing for it was tiring. He was only 22, for God’s sakes, he was allowed to be 22, was he not? Not a middle-aged man with a middle-aged man’s haircut, he was a 22-year-old millionaire footballer, he could act like it for a while. Cue the woman.

***

_You need to be better than this John. I am disappointed in you. Call me._

The message shone brightly on John’s screen, it had been there for a good 30 seconds and John still kept looking at it. Eric almost never called him John, it was always Stonesy or Pencil or Jonny or some other spur of the moment name from training so when it was John it meant business.

And John knew it already. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen the thousand other messages on his phone or in his email or the tabloids and the message forums, why the fuck would she go to the press, of course she would go to the press, or the press would go to her. All of it led to him being fucked, from his own doing. _Ye really need to be better than this_ , he thought to himself as he pressed the phone symbol next to Eric’s message.

“Hey mate”, was the quick reply at the other end.

“Hey”, John replied quietly.

“How are things going today in your opinion?” Eric said calmly but the accusatory note in his voice clear as day.

“What can I say, what can I say Eric, I fuck’d up and everyone knows it and it’s all over the press and it’s bye bye England yea?” John spoke quickly, desperately.

“I think England’s the least of your worries now mate, think about your mum and dad, and Millie for fuck’s sake.”

John fell quiet. He rarely heard Eric swear so it packed a punch when it happened.

“So you had your reasons”, Eric continued, “whatever they might be, if you want to tell me I'll listen and I’m with you mate but I need to tell you when you’re being a fucking horrible human being.”

John remained quiet.

“I wish you’d told me earlier, that this is what you were doing, and I would’ve stopped you-“

“It’s not yer job, Dier”, John snapped back.

“It is my job, as your friend, John”, Eric raised his voice, “to support you mate, I love you mate, but you can’t be making horrible decisions with your life-”

There was that word again, John shook his head slowly. _If only ye really did, we wouldn’t be in this fuckin' mess._

“-not when you know the scrutiny we’re under, the press, everything”, Eric was still talking when John tuned in again.

“I know all this, I do”, John sighed. “I made a mistake and I need to fix it, I know that.”

He could hear Eric sigh quietly on the other end.

“Tell me how to fix it, E.”

***

Talking to the press afterwards was the most excruciatingly painful experience of his life. Never mind the bone-crushing tackles, the torn ligaments or studs on open shins, nothing would compare to apologising for the mistake he had made.

Getting back to his routine somehow made life bearable again. They were already qualified for the World Cup and if John stayed healthy, he was quietly confident of a spot in the squad. Meanwhile Eric had only gone and had his first captaincy, something John had celebrated by sneaking in a box of Turkish delights in Eric’s locker at Wembley after the match before sneaking out, with a note _This is when I knew this day would come._ Eric had responded with a text full of heart emojis, the soft bastard.

***

Repino in June was nice, the resort with enough distraction that could contain a squad of 23 for what they hoped was at least a month. There was belief, there was hope, there were fucking mosquitos and other assorted insects but it was the first World Cup for most lads, time to make memories.

Because of the long period of staying in one place, the gaffer and staff had made a rotation list for roommates. No pairs from the same clubs, though, which made for an interesting change. John spent a week with Dele (a hoot, except for the incessant Fortnite), the next with Youngy, during which he scored his first two goals for England against Panama, something Youngy conveniently took credit for, the third with Rubs and the fourth with Eric.

After going through the group stage it was Colombia. No doubt in their minds they could beat them, no doubt, after all, football was coming home and Southgate was the one, as he heard Eric humming in their room.

“Nervous, E?” John asked as they were lying on their beds the night before their flight to Moscow and the match.

“Nah mate”, he tilted his head towards John, his eyes shifting away from his phone screen. “You?”

“I don’t think so, I know we can beat ‘em.”

“At least you’ll be starting”, Eric grinned. “Time to make an impact, yeah?”

“Yeh”, John smiled. “England expects, like ye like to say.”

“Never mind England now”, Eric shifted position on the bed, putting his phone down, “I expect you to take us through, all the matches leading to this point, all the trainings, everything, that’s why we’re here today, you and me, the last 16.”

“I’ve always liked yer pep talks”, John smiled, turning to his side on the bed, facing Eric.

“I mean it, you know I do”, Eric said, raising his arms behind his head, his eyes towards the ceiling. “Everyone else, outside these rooms, no matter how much they want us to win, they’ll never know the hours, months, years of work it’s taken us to get here and how special this is with you mate, I think about it sometimes, the road we’ve had and you remember how we started in Turkey and what’s happened but we haven’t given up and sometimes I think if you weren’t in my life, if our paths never crossed, we never played together, then would we be here mate? You know? Cos out of all the lads you’ve been with me the longest, well you and H, but I care about you mate, you’re a brilliant lad and I love you and whatever happens tomorrow, if it’s in our hands, out of our hands, it’s important that you know this.”

A silence fell to the room. Eric turned his head to look at John on the bed next to his. John looked back at him silently, emotion brimming in his eyes while he summoned the strength to speak.

Thankfully Eric stayed silent, his eyes on John’s when the dark-haired man finally managed, “I love ye too mate.”

Eric broke out in a wide smile. “Took you long enough to say that.”

John smiled back with a hint of sadness, knowing Eric didn’t mean the words the way he did.

“They’re some big words, not to be thrown around.”

“I agree”, Eric replied, his hand reaching for his phone again, ready for another swipe session on Instagram.

“Thank ye fer that, mate”, John continued, clearing his throat a little, “it means a lot to me.”

“Hey, you and me, Stonesy”, Eric was back on his phone again, his thumb moving rhythmically on the screen, “we’re singing for Eng-land, En-ger-land”, he hummed as he clicked open another video of fans back home, “listen I can give you some tips for Davinson for set pieces tomorrow…” he kept talking but John was tuned out, desperately trying to store the earlier words in the small nook in his soul where words like that belonged before Eric’s ramblings would cover them up.

 _What a beautiful fool ye are_ , he thought to himself but unsure if he meant himself or Eric.

***

Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck!

John wasn’t particularly religious but in times of jubilation he, like most people, summoned up some higher beings. Fuck yeh they won, Jesus Christ those bastards played dirty but leave it to his lover Eric Dier to score the winner. England through on penalties, what the fuck.

John laughed to himself; Eric might get the joke of being called his lover on the count that he did say _I love you_ yesterday. But then again, he might not. Never mind, John laughed out loud again, the mood giddy still on the plane back to Repino, chants starting here and there, hugs and handshakes distributed freely. He was sitting next to Walks who still had ice packs on his hamstrings and kept munching away on some slightly eclectic Russian pick and mix sweets. John wanted the flight over, he desperately wanted to be back at the hotel, in his room, their room, with Eric, to celebrate. Fuck yea. Sweden next, ea-sy. Easy peasy, as Fabs would say.

It was close to 4 am when they finally reached their room, some shouts still reverberating along the hallway and no way were any of them sleeping for a good while. John pushed the door closed and saw Eric throw himself on his bed, arms and legs stretched out and a grin on his face. John felt tempted to throw himself on top of Eric, just because if ever there was a time, this could be it. He chuckled at the thought and instead sat down on his own bed.

“Hey”, he said with a voice brimming with a smile and Eric turned his head. “Love ye mate.”

Eric let out a laughter that bounced around the room, stood quickly and wrapped John into a tight embrace.

“Ah mate” he laughed near John’s neck, pulled his hands up to John’s face and rested his forehead against his teammate’s. “What a day”, Eric smiled again, his eyes now closed and the two foreheads still resting on one another. John had lost his words, instead his let his hands rest against Eric’s back, his palms over his shoulder blades, feeling the bone and the muscle under his touch.

Eric backed away, the grin still fixed on his face as he sat back down on his bed.

“What did I say”, Eric smiled.

“Wha’?” John replied, an equally silly grin planted on his face.

“You and me, lad”, Eric gestured between them, “I”, he pointed at himself, “I expected you to take us through and you”, he turned his finger at John, “you did that, you rose to the occasion.”

“Me?” John shrieked, his voice rising higher than he wanted, “says the lad who scored the penalty!”

“Ah mate, I’m proud of you”, Eric continued.

“I’m proud of ye mate”, John echoed.

“What a day”, Eric repeated again, exhaling loudly. “Meu coração está cheio”, he spoke under his breath.

John was used to the intermittent Portuguese coming from Eric over the years, some of it he could figure out, some not; sometimes he asked about it, sometimes not.

“What does tha’ mean?” he asked carefully, giving Eric the option to brush it off.

“My heart is full, that’s what it means”, Eric smiled. “Like I’m so full of emotion… so happy that my chest feels like bursting, you know… like my heart is full.” Eric shrugged his shoulders slightly embarrassed it seemed.

“Well yer the resident poet here”, John smiled, stood up and on impulse planted a quick kiss on Eric’s cheek before standing up. “I know how ye feel, I do”, he said while holding Eric’s gaze. “Really need a wee though”, he cracked a smile, desperate to cut through the slowly building tension. “Will ye be a’right?” he quipped while pointing towards the bathroom.

“Fuck off”, Eric laughed. “I need a shower though, to wash off the plane and everything”, he said standing up and from the corner of his eye John could see a t-shirt come off. _Right, just the wee then, no wank_ , he laughed on the inside, remembering the countless times he had relieved himself in hotel bathrooms with Dier on the other side of the door.

***

The drum of the water against the tiles didn’t last very long, Dier had somehow mastered the art of the quickie shower, John thought as he lay on his bed, down to his boxers now and feeling his muscles twitch here and there from exhaustion. Maybe it was the hair, or the lack of hair, he contemplated, that allowed for the speedy showers. He tried to think if the showers were as quick earlier when Eric had proper hair but he couldn’t remember.

“Oi”, he yelled instinctively towards the bathroom. “Did ye take longer showers when ye had more hair?”

There was no response but after a moment the bathroom door opened and the familiar head emerged. “Shut. Up. Stonesy. It’s 4 am and you’re yelling about showers, maybe someone wants to sleep here eh?”

John laughed and raised his hands to his mouth. “Sorry mate. This is why yer the captain and I’m not.”

“Good God”, Eric sighed with a smile and turned back to the bathroom.

A strange calm came over John suddenly, his hands slowly falling to his sides. Thinking back on it, he couldn’t figure out what possessed him, was it a moment of madness or of pure clarity but almost like a déjà vu he felt he had been in this situation before and he was looking at himself stand up from the bed and head towards the bathroom. In fact he had been in this situation countless times, sharing a room with Eric, sharing a bathroom so this was familiar but at the same time all kinds of wrong. On all kinds of levels he knew it was wrong but fuck it, nothing was wrong on a day like today. His heart was also full.

***

Eric stood in front of the bathroom mirror when John carefully pushed the door open, a white towel hanging low on Eric's hips, as usual. Beads of water still clung to his short hair and a few drops sailed down his back and chest before reaching their end in the towel. Eric turned his head towards the opening door but said nothing as John stepped in slowly.

John also said nothing, his eyes lingering on the damp firm body in front of him, small tan lines showing where t-shirts had been, Eric’s body now completely different from his own, wider, firmer somehow. He had seen the transformation over the years, a new training camp always meant a slightly different Dier, his body filling up slowly over the years. John turned towards Eric’s back, both men still saying nothing.

“Yer shoulder blades”, John started slowly, “they stick out somehow, I’ve always wondered why”, he said, bringing his hands to cup the slightly protruding bones in Eric’s back. Eric still said nothing, his eyes fixed on the mirror in front of him, looking at John’s figure behind him through the mirror.

John pressed his hands more firmly against Eric’s skin, feeling the muscles move under his palms before slowly moving his hands up to the back of Eric’s neck. He could see Eric swallow empty, blue hooded eyes still fixed on John through the mirror but no sound, no joke, no smile, just the eyes.

John raised his right hand to the back of Eric’s head, the stubbly hair tickling his palm but he moved the hand across the hair and back to Eric’s neck again. “I was thinkin’ of when ye had hair” he said quietly, raising his eyes to meet Eric’s in the mirror and there was no going back, he realised. Eric met his gaze and the two continued to look at each other through the mirror while John’s chest pressed against Eric’s damp back.

Slowly John moved and with a few steps placed himself in front of Eric, bum against the cool sink and the love of his life stood in front of him. Eric continued to look at him but still said nothing when John raised his hand to his jawline and brushed his fingers across the beard.

“Now this could be shorter”, he said slowly as the fingers mapped out the beard on Eric’s jaw, down to the tip of the chin, up to the moustache and back to the jawline. He could feel Eric breathing through his nose, his lips closed tightly and small muscles moving along the jaw but still no sound, just the eyes calm but firm on John’s face.

Next the tip of John’s forefinger pressed against the mole on Eric’s neck, just left of the Adam’s apple and John saw Eric’s lips open slightly, from surprise perhaps, he didn’t dare to hope for other emotions. “This I like”, John whispered, “this has been on me mind for years”, he said as he rolled his finger over the small mole, feeling the texture before drawing a line further down with his finger to the collarbone, and to the middle of the chest where a drop of water was making its way down. John followed the droplet with his finger, Eric’s skin shivering and his chest rising as he took a breath.

“What's happening?” Eric asked almost inaudibly and John raised his eyes to meet his. The two looked at each other, John trying his best to relay his emotions, all the pent up emotions from all these years into that connection.

“Have ye known?” John asked quietly, his eyes still on Eric’s, pleading that these years had not been a waste, that he wasn’t alone in this.

A barely noticeable nod registered in the closeness of the humid air. John swallowed empty, his pulse racing and heart thumping in his chest, he imagined Eric could hear it clearly.

“Will ye let me do this?” John asked in a whisper, his voice shaky but not uncertain, not begging or pleading but asking.

Another small nod, like a penalty of the smallest variety kicked in and the walls in John’s chest blew open, arms in the air, running towards a heap of red. Christ. John leaned in and pressed his lips to the side of Eric’s neck, a soft touch at first before moving his mouth to let his tongue take a taste. He moved to the warm collarbone, and to the centre of the chest where that pesky droplet had travelled down. John pressed his lips to the middle of Eric’s chest and let his tongue follow the trail left earlier by the water. He could feel Eric’s chest rise and fall as his breathing quickened and felt a touch of fingers at the back of his own neck.

John removed his lips from the warm skin and looked up to see a pool of blue looking back at him. Slowly but determinedly he rose up and captured Eric’s mouth in one smooth move, the fingers at the back of his neck pulling him closer as their lips moved together, mouths opened with a sigh and tongues found new homes. _Madness_ , John thought as Eric pushed him against the sink, their mouths pressed firmly together. _What beautiful madness_.

***

Kisses, caresses, madness had taken them to a few hours of exhausted sleep before the coaching staff did the rounds and woke everyone for breakfast, or was it lunch already, and recovery sessions. John woke up disorientated, his head humming from the lack of sleep, his body covered under the blankets in his own bed. He looked over at Eric’s bed, at the man blinking slowly to remove the sleep from his eyes. John’s brain worked overtime to piece together fiction and reality, dream and truth but as he brought his fingers to his chapped lips panic set in.

 _No he did not do what he did_.

_No he did not ruin everything._

John looked over at Eric again who was now looking back at him.

“Good morning”, he said, a sleepy smile and even sleepier eyes.

“Morning”, John replied as he noticed the red marks down Eric’s bare chest and up his neck.

“Listen-“ John started.

“Mate, don’t worry, it was quite a night, quite a day yesterday”, Eric interrupted, speaking quickly. “It was amazing, yeah? What a great day”, he said as he threw the covers and sat up. “I need some food though, starving, what about you? What time is recovery, I can’t remember and then I promised to do the Lions’ Den”, Eric kept talking as he searched for his socks and trackies.

John followed the movement silently, silently scolding himself for his stupidity, trying to figure out how this would not ruin absolutely everything.

Eric stopped when he had his socks on, his grey trackies and a white Lions shirt. He moved to John’s bed, scooted to sit down on the edge and looked at the petrified man.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Eric asked while John surveyed the red marks on the blond man’s neck. He raised his hand to indicate a mark.

Eric touched the spot. “Don’t worry, I’ll say it’s from the celebrations, the pile at the end, there’s always scrapes and scratches.”

John nodded. _For fuck’s sake_.

“So do we talk?” Eric tried again.

“Maybe later”, John offered, he couldn’t handle this now, he wasn’t sure what he had been expecting but all manner of realities were kicking in.

“We’re ok, yeah?” Eric asked, bringing his hand to smooth down John’s unruly hair. Some might mistake the gesture for intimacy but John knew differently.

 _Yeh we’re ok in that I bared my soul and I shouldn’t have and we fuckin’ made out at the World Cup and ye seem ok with it and I don’t know what tha’ means but I’ll be fucked if we ever talk abou’ this again_.

“Yeh, we’re ok”, was John’s reply.

“Give us a hug”, Eric leaned closer, almost chipper now and John rose to meet the arms. “Top man you are”, Eric said as he pressed a quick kiss to John’s cheek while heading for the door. “See you down there.”

“Yep”, John replied before slumping back to the bed.

 _What a fool ye are_ , he thought as he shut down, began to store the hazy moments to the back of his mind and promised himself he would never talk about this with Eric again. In fact the less talk with Eric the better, that seemed like a good option. Wouldn’t be easy with the rest of the tournament or next season with the call-ups but doable, at least in a civil way, he calculated.

***

Fucking Spurs, John chanted in his mind as City’s private plane taxied down the runway, ready for London.

Fuck Spurs, fuck him.

Fuck him.

Love him.

_\- Fin -_

 

 


End file.
